Hollow Existence
by Critic From Hell
Summary: Oneshots concerning a fool, his friends, and all the other unfortunates who met him. Nine: 'Gratitude's for losers :D'
1. Discarded

**Discarded**

Discarded…

He was too young to know what the word meant then, but understood the concept well enough. His father had thrown him away like an empty potion bottle, a worthless scrap of garbage that had served what little use it had. Pain and cold bit into his scrawny body as the rain started up again, this time with a sprinkle of lightning to add to his sense of doom. All he had wished for was to die, to sleep. He had served his purpose, let the torment end.

But alas, it seemed as if fate had other plans in mind. As the despairing child closed his eyes and dropped off to sleep, a wandering master-of-arms found him…

* * *

There were no bars of steel in this cage of his, or stone walls and roofs. Most would have considered the Lou-yang mountainside beautiful. Most were not forced to train day and night on the plateau by a ridiculously powerful asshole who thought ruptured lungs were only a step up from flesh wounds. Prior to the training, the boy had thought those silly bruises he had received from falling down a ravine were bad. Sticking around his mentor, he discovered what agony truly was. A wolf's savaging was like a love bite compared to the things he was suffering now. 

How he wished to leave those mountains, to escape the inevitable death that awaited him there.

* * *

At last, when his mentor had passed out in a drunken stupor, the boy managed to escape. Leaving his accursed home behind and hitching a boat to Alberta, he was finally free. 

It did not take long to find employment in Rune-Midgard. War was brewing in distant Prontera, where the king and several barons were in dispute over who had the better right to reign in this realm. Though young and inexperienced, the boy's skill with the sword quickly swept aside any doubts in his abilities. It did not take long for the boy to find employment as a mercenary fighting under the Purple banner of Geffen.

Had it not been for sense of purposelessness, he may have been content…

* * *

He had been arrogant, simply because he had beaten some careless fools twice his age. He began to think himself unmatched in single combat, a match for a veteran knight even. A foolish thought from a foolish swordsman, but he was a kid, and kids were ignorant by nature. He had seen was some little acolyte tending to a wounded archer, and had charge the two like a mad dog. Attacking the wounded went against his morals, but getting shot by a freshly-healed archer went against his common sense. 

Five minutes later, he was down with a set of broken ribs and two missing teeth. He had heard more than once that hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned, but being beaten by an unarmed acolyte was as unmanning as being castrated in a riding accident.

The blow to his pride, however, was well worth it. He felt strangely attracted to the acolyte that had beaten the crap out of him, until it grew into an obsession that made him resign his contract with Geffen to join Prontera. Though his reasons were mildly disturbing, his employers let it slide.

He was only seven, after all.

* * *

A year passed before he saw the girl again, shuffled into the unit she served in completely by chance. The first thing he did when he entered the barracks was to challenge her to a duel. The second thing he did was to go to the infirmary with his bones re-broken. As she sat by his bedside and laughed at his foolishness, he swore that he would get back at her some day or die trying, the first oath he never fulfilled. They began sparring everyday when there wasn't a battle, and the boy went to the infirmary everyday with a new bone that needed mending. 

Soon the monk-in-training and her young companion became a common sight together, like a mistress and her hound. The girl didn't seem to mind his presence, and the boy found this strange bond comforting. For the first time in his life, he felt that he had a reason for being, a purpose of sorts.

* * *

No one knew what had triggered Glasthiem's invasion, and no one knew where its limitless hordes had been hiding. They had simply appeared one day and swept aside the silly civil war like a flood, crushing the bulk of both side's forces and forcing them into an alliance. None of it matter to the boy, however, for he was purposeless once more. 

Save for himself, his company had been annihilated in the surprise attack. He watched helplessly as the closest thing he had to a family was shredded before his eyes by ranks of emotionless raydrics, as people he had trusted with his life were torn to pieces. These new unwavering foes were too strange, too alien for him comprehend, and he had stood frozen, nearly pissing himself in fright.

It had been the sight of the acolyte being impaled through her center with a giant sword that had snapped the boy out of his daze. All conscious thoughts were wiped from his mind, and he threw every bone and sinew into a berserk strike at the Blood Knight that had slain her. It did little more than a scratch on the crimson-streaked helm of the creature, nothing compared to the bone-shattering punch that it retaliated with. How the boy survived, he never could say. Nor did he care. He was purposeless once more…

* * *

For the next couple of years the boy wandered aimlessly through every land, from Morroc to the south to Lutie in the north, all the way to distant Amatsu. At long last, he returned to his mentor's home in Lou-yang, partly because he had sunken into a depression and wasn't thinking straight, and partly because he was sick of living. He had fully expected to be beaten to death by his mentor for some obscure reason or another. 

He was half right. The boy was nearly dead by the time his mentor wrung the entire story out of him. He felt completely dead when the man decided he needed "toughening up" and dragged him all the way to Lighthazen. Even a moron such as his mentor should have known the boy's chances against anything down there were next to none, but the man merely replied that he would be fine, handed him stone daggers, and threw him in.

He was eleven, and suddenly very against the idea of dying.

* * *

The demon that the boy would learn to call Seyren bit into his throat, drawing more blood than the boy was aware he had. Satisfied, the creature flung him aside like a rag doll. The boy's blood still on his lips, the demon spoke: 

"…I have tasted your soul, and it has been most captivating… such anger… such hatred… all held back by this foolish rationality. A shame, you may have proven to be much sport."

Suddenly, an idea struck the demon. Grinning like the executioner at his victim, the Seyren stepped forward and placed a hand over the boy's chest. "Actually… you may prove to be an interesting toy after all…"

As the boy slipped into unconsciousness, he could feel something flow through the gaping wounds in his chest through his veins, coursing through his body like liquid fire. At first, it had felt vile…

But as the anger in his heart burned free, it started to feel _good._

_

* * *

_

Two years later, the war against Glastheim was still raging. The boy returned to the battlefield, though none who had known him then could recognize him now. Now his swordsmanship was backed with years of experience and a lifetime of wrath, making him stand out against other swordsman like a Vagabond wolf among pups. He was knighted within a year, lorded in six, and forgotten soon after. For the saying "God and soldier we adore, in times of war, not before" also applied to after.

But he no longer cared. Cross Windsor looked up into the sky, where the setting sun painted everything in sight blood red. It all looked like a painting out of a nightmare, or perhaps by a deranged artist. Drawing his claymore out of the Blood Knight he had been standing on, the man turned his back to the battlefield.

"I don't need a purpose…"


	2. Valor

**Valor**

"...Hey, Cross?"

"What the hell is it, vegetable?"

The first speaker grimaced at the use of the nickname, a tad affronted. True, it was far from the first time his companion had referred to his as an edible plant, and it probably (hopefully) wasn't going to be the last, but it still bugged him. It wasn't his fault he had been born with grass-green hair, and he should have deserved some respect as a knight. But his friend and comrade simply refused to give him any. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered him that much, but he was extremely nervous at the moment. Understandable, considering the situation he was in.

"First of all, I'd appreciate it if you stopped calling me 'vegetable.' This may be our last day together, after all, and I was hoping you'd at least call me by my first name."

"I'll start calling you 'Zephyr' when you start calling me 'Sir Windsor.' That is to say, never. And stop it with the depressing talk. If you die today, I'm out ten-thousand zenny."

"I'm so deeply moved, Sir."

"The hell you are," Cross growled, "Now what the hell is it? Make it fast, because this shit's about to begin at any moment."

Zephyr smiled. Not his usual cheerful grin, but one so strangely sublime that Cross was taken aback. "...Do you believe in an afterlife?"

"...You're bullshitting me right?"

"No, Cross. I really want to know what you think."

"WE'RE ABOUT TO LEAD A VANGUARD OF LESS THAN FIFTY SUICIDAL INBREDS HEADFIRST INTO THE WORLD'S GREATEST MEATGRINDER AND YOU'RE ASKING ME IF I BELIEVE IN A FUCKING LIFE AFTER DEATH?! WERE YOU _BORN _THIS FUCKING RETARDED OR ARE YOU PUTTING IN A SPECIAL EFFORT TODAY?!" Cross roared, waving a hand at the pitiful two score knights that made up his command, the Thirteenth Knight Division of Prontera, the Black Dragons. Though they had no banner, no dress code, no standard weapon, and no pride to speak of, they had been picked for the crucial task of spearheading the Pronteran army as they met the armies of Glastheim. When he heard about their newest posting, Zephyr had been rather surprised. It took him roughly a minute to remember the... "unique" nature of this particular division and how it made them both unnaturally ferocious on the battlefield and yet completely expendable. They were all delinquents, after all, so the King wouldn't be losing any sleep over their deaths.

And die they would, if they had to charge into the vast hordes of Raydrics in front of them. To Zephyr, they looked like a molten sea of silver, their steel bodies reflecting the morning sun into his eyes. There must have been over a million of them, though it was nearly impossible to make out their numbers with the glare they were giving off. More than enough to kill him a thousand times over, that was for sure.

"...So, do you?"

"Fuck no. We live this life through, then we're nothing," Cross growled, fingering the hilt of his claymore restlessly. The Lord Knight was ill at ease when it came to discussions regarding death, mainly because he flirted with it everyday.

Zephyr gave Cross a curious look. "Then how can you be so... fearless?"

"Simple. Have a life that's even shittier."

"...That may prove to be a problem for me, since, you know, I wasn't abandoned, adopted, re-abandoned, re-adopted, and traumatized three times over during the process."

Cross snorted. "I wasn't 're-abandoned' you turnip. I ran away."

"Well, your life sucks; that's fascinating. But that doesn't quite explain why you aren't afraid of anything," Zephyr cut in. "I mean, if you really did hate living that much, you'd have just slit your wrists and gotten it all over wi-"

"Will being afraid help you survive?"

"...What?"

The Lord Knight leaned from in his saddle, surveying the lines of Raydrics for any potential weaknesses. "Will fear help you survive a little longer? Live a little happier? Perhaps, if you had been a coward and fled from before they slapped that silly helm over your leafy head. Now, if you ran, they'd hang you as a deserter and throw your name into the mud. You don't have time to worry about dying anymore, or even what you fight for. All you should be thinking about is how you're going to fight, how you're going to avoid getting pin-cushioned before you reach the enemy lines, and how you're going to split the other fuckers' skull before they turn you into carrion." Cross shrugged. "Not that that will be enough. In the end, what really matters is luck and experience. I've got plenty of the latter. You've got obscene amounts of the former. So if we stick together, we might actually get out of this alive."

"...Okay, on second thought, be an asshole. I prefer asshole Cross over old, serious Cross."

"Fuck you kid, I'm only eighteen."

"And yet you know more than my dad when it comes to killing people." Zephyr sighed.

"As you said, my life sucks. Now shut up and get ready to charge. Those Raydrics are starting to move, and they'll be sounding the charge any moment now," the Lord Knight growled. Sure enough, the sea of phantom armors was advancing, like a great metal wave flowing in. Zephyr thought he could spot a handful of black armored giants in the ranks, the leading monsters of Glastheim. Arrows from the Raydric Archers began to fall in the gap between the armies, masking the advance of their troops from a cavalry attack.

"...You know, Cross?"

"What?"

"You make a horrible morale officer." The green-haired knight jerked a thumb back at the handful of knights behind them, each now pale with fear. Neither the Lord Knight nor Zephyr had bothered lowering their voices during the conversation, and that was doing horrors to the spirits of the others.

"Thanks. If both of us get out of this shit, I'm going to kill you."

"Love you too, sir."

"Still scared?"

"Absolutely."

"Good, it goes to show that you're still human."

"Oh?" Zephyr raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you, Mr. Fearless?"

The Lord Knight chuckled. "Why, a demon of course. His majesty's pet berserker, here to clear Prontera's path to victory, no matter what the cost."

"Lovely."

Before Cross could think of a response, golden trumpets of battle sounded, and the order to charge was howled along the ranks. The Lord Knight's mouth split into a wolfish grin as released his grip on his claymore and lowered his lance in his other hand. To him, life itself was a battlefield, and he had no time to waste on considering trivialities such as fear. Each new battle was just another soldier, another man he had to slay to live a little longer. Eventually, he would fall, surrounded by a sea of corpses, trophies of the grim life he had lived.

"FUCKERS! TODAY YOU BECOME KNIGHTS!" Cross roared, "COME AND RIDE WITH ME TO HELL!"

* * *

A/N: An attempt at being serious. please review. I live off of those. 


	3. Lessons in Pain

**Lessons in Pain**

No matter how extraordinary the workmanship of a weapon, or how skilled the wielder, there was no such thing as an "ultimate weapon." The claymore, for instance, was sharp enough to cut through flesh, long enough to get some reach, heavy enough to split plate armor, yet light enough to outmaneuver any weapon it couldn't overpower. The choice two-handed sword for most knights, it was a weapon which had proven its worth on the battlefield, in sparring rings, in the arena, and even in dungeons. Yet before his latest opponent, Zephyr's sword might as well have been a toothpick.

Panting like a dog, the green-haired knight eyed his opponent warily, searching for any weaknesses the monster had. No matter how he struck or feinted, his foe effortlessly turned aside his blows with its steel-plated appendages, brushing them aside as if they were nothing. After an hour or so of fighting, he'd yet to land a decisive blow on the monster, and he was getting pretty damned tired. Had it not been for the fact that his assailant was more interested in toying with him than simply killing him, Zephyr had no doubt he'd be dead...

Gritting his teeth, Zephyr sent the claymore flitting upwards in a lightning fast stroke, aimed straight at the monster's armored skull. As fast as his blow was, however, there was no way a mere knight could have matched the speed his opponent moved with, casually sidestepping and lashing out with its armored limb. Zephyr only saw a blur of black before the mass connected with his visor, flattening the face piece into his face. Judging from the blood pouring out the eyeholes, it could be safely assumed that the knight wasn't having the best of days at the moment.

Cursing in frustration, Cross shook the red off his bloodied hand-piece. "God damn it. Spinach head, are you really THAT rusty? I don't think I even need my gauntlets to kick your ass!"

With great effort, the knight managed to stay standing, using his sword as a crutch. "I tink you bwoke my noth..."

"Serves you right!" The Kord Knight bellowed. "I haven't got a sword, I'm not wearing my plate, and I don't have a fucking scratch on me! What, did you spend all the time you were away twiddling with yourself? Or did people stop shitting on your head and fertilizing your sorry green ass?"

"Let's try 'you got stronger,'" Zephyr grumbled, tugging futilely at his helmet. "Since when did you go hand-to-hand?"

"Since my mentor flung me into a wolf pack without as much as a knife," Cross explained. "I find my hands to be much more dexterous than two-handed swords, which weigh too damned much to be controlled easily in mid-swing. Unlike a claymore, I can actually feint."

Zephyr just stared at his superior as if he'd lost his mind.

"...What?" Cross asked.

"This coming from the guy whose answer to everything three years ago was 'a bigger sword.'" The green-haired knight shook his head in disbelief. "Besides, since when did you care about feinting? The Cross I knew never struck if he wasn't going for a killing blow, and never had to worry about being 'dexterous.' Hell, I saw you slice that poor falcon out of mid-flight after it crapped on you!"

"Well, what the fuck else was I supposed to do? Let him get away with it?!"

"Maybe. It was Franz's..."

"THE FUCKER SHIT IN MY EYE, YOU BASTARD! MY EYE!!!"

"O...kay..." The younger knight put a bit of distance between himself and Cross, just in case. "Your fucked-up sense of justice aside, I still don't see why you're suddenly studying martial arts."

"I prefer to think of it as 'bar brawling skills.'"

"They've got stances in bar brawling!?"

"Sure! Drunken fist!"

"...You don't get drunk..."

Cross shrugged. "Must be your odor. I think it's frying my brain cells."

"...What odor?"

"That rancid cow shit smell. But don't worry; I'm not going to bitch about you over that. Young vegetables need fertilizers to grow big and strong-"

"Oh, shut up. Just 'cause my hair's green..."

The Lord Knight sniffed the air in disgust. "No, seriously, you smell like shit. When's the last time you had a bath?"

"'Bout a week ago, why?"

"...The moment we find water, I'm going to drown you."

This brought a laugh from the younger knight. "Hey, c'mon. We're in the middle of the forest. How was I supposed to catch a bath out here?"

"Try rivers." Cross shook his head in disbelief. "Damn, and people call me sick."

"Obviously, your perversity is contagious."

"I renew my oath to kill you, and hereby sentence you to death."

"You're not much of a friend, you know that?"

The Lord Knight grinned. "Think of me as your older brother, out to teach you a meaningful and painful lesson in life. Specifically, the end of it."

As soon as Cross uttered the word "brother," Zephyr stiffened. He did indeed have an older brother once, a promising crusader who had apparently fought alongside the Lord Knight long before Zephyr was swinging a sword. Zethary had died long ago, though, slaughtered by a Storm Knight in a tale so strange even Cross did not care to share it, at least not for some time. The day after the Lord Knight recounted Zethary's grisly demise, he had presented Zephyr with the Storm Knight's head, blood barely congealed despite Lutie's freezing weather. Though his sense of morality was obviously nonexistent, that act had proved that Cross still did have some... what was it called?

As Zephyr searched for the right word, Cross lashed out, fist whistling by the knight's head by an inch and smashing the bark off a tree. Grinning like a wolf, he stared into Zephyr's eyes.

"Are you done daydreaming? 'Cause if you are, I'd like to get on with carrying out my pledge."

Whatever the word was, it certainly wasn't "mercy." Zephyr took off into the underbrush, screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs.

He didn't make it far.


	4. Seasonal Blues

**Seasonal Blues **

Not everyone spent their Christmases in front of roaring fireplaces, sipping hot cocoa and belting out carols with friends and family while freezing winds whistled outside. For some, December the twenty-fifth was a day of loneliness, where they reflected on how empty their days were, how they had no companions, no kin, not even a minion to share this day with, and how they had lived their lives for nothing.

Cross drank alone on the snow-covered hillside, downing cups of aged vintages as if they were cheap ale. Judging from the hastiness of his actions, one would think that he was desperately trying to forget something. He didn't seem to be making much progress, if the small pile of empty bottles lying beside him meant anything. Cursing bitterly, the Lord Knight ditched the glass and started downing bottles directly, determined to finish his entire stockpile before midnight or die trying.

"That can't be healthy."

With a startled oath, the Lord Knight dropped his bottle and tore his claymore from its scabbard, brandishing the great blade menacingly. Strange, he couldn't see shit...

"It's me."

"Me who?" Cross sneered, hoping to buy time to locate the voice. Attempts on his life were not uncommon. Slice first and ask questions later was the safest way to go.

"Ralith."

"...The homeless guy?"

From behind Cross, a tree stump sighed. "I prefer the term 'vagabond.'"

"I call them like I see them, and I haven't heard you mentioning a house..."

The stump sniffled. "And to think, I came all this way to keep you company on the loneliest day of the year."

"Translation: You've got nothing to do either, so you thought you'd sneak over and see if I'd share a bottle for free."

"Well, you do have plenty more..." Ralith hinted.

"No. Your brain's already fried enough as it is," Cross grunted. "What kind of pathetic excuse for an Assassin Cross squats as a fucking tree stump?!"

"What kind of Lord Knight drinks himself to death on a hillside on Christmas Eve?"

"The angsty kind," The Lord Knight replied, downing another bottle.

Slowly, the tree stump Cross had been talking to shimmered, then vanished to reveal an Assassin Cross, katars at his side and a dorky Santa hat on his head. Silently as his profession dictated, Ralith strode to a spot beside Cross, then sat down with a thump that would have gotten him fired.

"You're too cheerful to be considered... 'angsty.'"

"And you're too retarded to be taken... 'seriously,'" The Lord Knight commented, tossing the bottle over his shoulder.

"I am a very serious man."

"I'm sorry, can I quote you on that the next time you start sniffing wood glue?"

"...Shut up and hand me a bottle," The Assassin Cross grumbled.

"Uh uh. This shit's too heavy for you, you'll be wasted in half a pint. Can't have that, if you plan on checking on your daughter later," Cross grunted, uncorking another bottle and bringing it to his lips. Because of this, he missed out on a once in a lifetime sight: a startled Assassin Cross.

"How- how did you know I had a daught-"

"You nimrod. Everyone in our little group knows. You used to visit her during holidays, now once a month because your wife passed away." Cross tossed another bottle behind him. "So, really, I'm the only guy who doesn't have anywhere to go today."

Ralith remained silent as the Lord Knight picked up yet another drink and downed it like it was water. Though Cross didn't seem depressed, he rarely expressed any emotions outside of fury, so that wasn't saying much. Anyone who was drinking himself into oblivion on Christmas Eve HAD to be unhappy, to say the least. So, as a sworn friend to Prontera's most infamous madman, he had to do something to cheer him up.

However, as a former emotionless killing machine, he didn't have the slightest clue how to begin.

"Uh... cheer up."

"...what?"

"Cheer up," The Assassin Cross repeated awkwardly. "We may not show it all the time but we... your friends... do value you."

"...What the fuck?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this." Ralith continued, "What I'm trying to say is that... that..."

"You think that no one likes me, and I know it, so that's why I'm on a fucking hill getting shit faced on the most familial day of the year," Cross finished.

"...I'm trying to say that's NOT true."

"You do it horribly. Come a little closer, so I can shove this bottle so far up your ass you'll whistle when you speak."

Ralith sighed. "Listen, I mean no offense-"

"If you had somewhere to invite me to, would you?"

"...Certainly," The Assassin Cross replied hesitantly.

"Liar," The Lord Knight replied softy. "You wouldn't, not unless you were smoking weed. I'm crude, impulsive, violent, and ill-tempered, liable to come to the table with both fists armed and leave it bloodied and grinning."

"...If you know your flaws, why don't you change them?"

"I don't want to," Cross replied matter-of-factly. "And besides, who says I don't like spending Christmas like this?"

"Common sense and nature's laws," Ralith replied. "Humans are social creatures. They are not meant to be... alone."

Cross put down his bottle and sighed heavily. "...That was an extremely profound statement coming from a man who burns leaves dipped in embalming fluids to forget his miseries, and an extremely hypocritical statement from an Assassin Cross, a man born and bred to live in the shadows, invisible and friendless."

Ralith flinched. "I consider myself to have been less than human then."

"Then you found love, life, depression, and drugs. Not a bad way to live, I suppose, except you sleep in a trash can." Cross took a sip from yet another bottle. "Have you ever considered, even briefly, that perhaps some people simply like being alone? Away from the hypocrisy and corruption that is society? Maybe I LIKE getting away from it all. And MAYBE you just fucking ruined it."

"Do you?"

"No, not really. But I don't wanna bother people who have better places to go during Christmas." The Lord Knight sighed. "Now get out of here. Just... get out of here."

Ralith chuckled. "I can't do that. Then you'd have no one at all."

"Fine, I'll go bug my kids. Happy?"

Ralith chuckled again. "You don't have kids."

"...Actually..." Cross mumbled.

"...You're serious."

The Lord Knight chucked another bottle over his shoulder and sighed. "Unfortunately, yes. I've bred."

"..." The Assassin Cross stole one of the bottles from Cross's sizeable stash and downed it. The fiery liquid burned a path down his throat and hit his head like a sledgehammer. "How long?"

"Which one? The younger or the older?"

Ralith nearly choked. "The older."

"Oh... about twelve years now, I think."

This time, the Assassin Cross DID choke. Understandable, since his younger companion was twenty-two years old. "You're not married."

"And never was, I assure you," Cross replied calmly.

"That would mean you had a bastard when you were ten... no, nine years old."

"Shut up, it was rape."

Ralith downed another mouthful. Though the shot barely left him conscious, it did nothing to heal the scars in his mind. "And the other kid?"

"Same mother, three years younger. I needed the money that time."

Ralith fainted.

With a sigh, Cross got up, picked up his elder friend, and started for the nearest city. If he didn't get the Assassin Cross to someplace warm soon, the sucker would freeze in his sleep, leaving his daughter an orphan. Not exactly the best Christmas present to give a little girl.

"This season gets less jolly every year..."

* * *

A/N: For everyone else out there who's feeling like shit during Christmas.Physically or psychologically so. 


	5. Wind of Farewell

**Wind of Farewell**

Like a demon out of hell, the Lord Knight sprang out from the ranks of renegades splattered with the blood and gore of his enemies. The leader of the army bawled an order, and a hedge of steel lances barred Cross's path. Heedless of his own life, the Lord Knight flung himself into the fray, driving his own blade into the face of the leader as pole arms pincushioned his body.

With the death of their leader, the renegade knights broke, crying out in fear and dismay. Few would live to see another sunrise. Fewer would dare to show their faces in Rune-Midgard again, not with the 7th Crusader Division running down survivors without mercy. Quarter was rarely granted for infidels, especially in the heat of battle.

Raging though the battle on his Grand Peco, Azrael hewed his way to where Cross had fallen. He eyed his friend's tattered body with an annoyed expression, stunning the Paladin's nearby retainers. They had known him to be unnaturally calm, almost cold, but this...

"How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been locked in an Iron Maiden."

Before the crusaders' astonished eyes, Cross slowly rose, shakily. Four or five spears were still lodged deeply in his hide, wobbling slightly as the Lord Knight straightened. For a moment, it looked as if he would be able to stand on his own. Then, his legs gave out underneath him, leaving the Lord Knight to fall into his friend's waiting arms.

"FUCK!"

"Calm down, Cross. You've lost a lot of blood-"

"GET YOUR HAND OFF THE GAPING HOLE IN MY BACK OR YOU'RE GONNA LOSE A LOT MORE!"

"Ah." The Paladin hefted his load and dumped it on the back of his Grand Peco. He turned to the second-in-command. "Their host is broken. Mop up the survivors and round up whatever prisoners you can for questioning. Remember, promise mercy and a fair trial to those who lay down their swords, but do not hesitate to slay those who resist."

"But what of you, sir?"

"I have to haul the rent-a-berserker back before he bleeds to death."

"I'm deeply, ow, moved," Cross drawled.

* * *

"Sir, sir. You shouldn't get up yet. Your wounds-"

"I'm fine," Cross interrupted, hobbling out the infirmary tent on a crutch. "Got an arm and a leg left, right?"

"Yes, sir, but there are nearly two hundred stitches on you!"

"Flesh wounds. Quiet, butt plug, or I'll hang your hide on a bramble."

That shut the acolyte up instantly. The Lord Knight limped slowly to the edge of the encampment, where the battle had been fought. Papal forces were still burying the dead and rounding up prisoners, firmly but without taunts or jeers, a sight both alien and disturbing to Cross.

"Already standing?" Azrael walked up behind the Lord Knight.

"I've had worse."

"That was incredibly reckless of you, charging in like that."

Cross snorted. "If I was hanging back like the rest of your tin soldiers, this battle would have taken all day. Besides," the Lord Knight's face darkened, "That's all I'm good for, isn't it? 'The slobbering hound from hell that blasts men's souls and devours their bodies.'"

"Has someone been calling you that?"

"Most of the priests, swordies, acolytes, and a couple of crusaders. Course, most thought it was too much a mouthful and shortened it to 'mad dog.'"

"I'll have a word with them."

"No need. If the ignorant fuck heads are too blind to realize I'm risking my neck for their lives, then I'd rather they avoid me altogether."

The Paladin gave his companion a surprised look. Cross's temper was shorter than a marine sphere's and a thousand-fold more volatile. For him to ignore an insult...

"What's wrong?"

"I've cheated death by a hair's breadth again. If it wasn't for the lead vest I wear under my full plate, I'd be dead."

"You've cheated death a hundred times like that. Why should it change you now?"

"Perhaps I'm getting old." The reply dripped with sarcasm.

"Bullshit. You're only twenty-five."

"I dunno, you've been acting like my mother since you hit twelve."

"Cross. Seriously. What's wrong?"

"I think I recognized one of those poor bastards I cut down."

"...Damn."

Sitting down heavily, Azrael eyed his companion with some concern. For all his crudeness and seeming indifference, the Lord Knight held friendship second to only kinship.

"Was he a friend of yours?"

"Sort of. Rode with him for a couple of jobs. He watched my back and I watched his, shared a couple of beers, gambled a little. I felt a bit like a guardian for the kid."

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For... for hiring you for this mission, I suppose. If I never called you here, you wouldn't have had to end his life."

The Lord Knight shrugged. "I'm a mercenary. This isn't the first time I've slain an old friend, and I doubt it'll be the last time. Doubt I'll get used to it, but I'll live."

"Then why do you work as a sword-for-hire?"

"I have no where else to go," replied Cross.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then, drawing his sword from his sheathe, the Lord Knight stepped into the killing grounds. Azrael followed his friend uneasily, afraid that Cross may have finally snapped.

Cross wandered through the battlefield, heedless of piles of dead bodies and the choking scent of blood. These scenes and scents were as familiar to him as a roast over a fire. It amused him how people sniffed eagerly at a barbequed Savage, yet wretched at burnt corpses. They were both flesh and bone; what was the difference?

He came to a halt before a foot deep depression, where a young swordswoman was lowering the corpse of a green-haired knight into his shallow grave. "Amelia, you might want to dig it a little deeper. The ground's as flat as your chest; he'll come popping to the surface with the first rainstorm."

Azrael wondered whether or not he should save his companion from the swordwoman's berserk onslaught. Friendship won out in the end, and he peeled the enraged girl off her prey. "Amelia, go help your sister with the wounded. Cross and I will finish up."

"But Father"

"That's 'Captain' out here. Don't worry, your godfather and I can handle it." Prying the bloodied shovel from her fingers, the Paladin gently pushed her away. "Don't make me make it an order."

As the swordswoman skulked off, Azrael began to dig, leaving Cross to stare at the corpse in silence. It was slow work, scraping out a grave in the rock hard ground, but he got the job done. Together, the two covered the knight. As the Paladin knelt before the grave to utter a short prayer, Cross drove his earth claymore into the ground, a soldier's headstone.

"Farewell, Zephyr. May you find peace, wherever you are."

"Zeph- YOU INCREDIBLE BASTARD!"

Cross shrugged. "What could I have done? He was on the other side."

"Your own apprentice... and your former lieutenant's brother... and you just slaughtered him?"

"Turning naive? This is a way of life. It doesn't matter who they are; if they come at you with a sword drawn and intent to kill, they are your enemy. I had no choice but to fight."

"What cold-hearted asshole taught you that?"

Cross grinned humorlessly. "Why, by the best teachers in the world. Experience... and yourself."

Cross hobbled off, leaving the infuriated Paladin swearing and throwing a tantrum. It brought a small smile to his lips knowing that Azrael had turned more gullible over the years. Nice as his friend's concern was, he really, really didn't want it now.

If only he had stayed his blade for a moment... If only his battle rage had not driven him half-deaf and all mad... if only he had glanced to his side before swinging his Zweilhander... Perhaps Zephyr could have survived...

* * *

A/N: Merry belated Christmas. Here's my gift to you all. 


	6. Prelude to Wind of Farewell

**Prelude to Wind of Farewell**

Lying on the moonlight hillside, Zephyr looked at the sky, numbering the stars one by one. It wasn't that he actually wanted to know the exact number of heavenly bodies that were out there, but rather it was a habit picked up from a friend, a senior among the knighthood who had counted the glowing dots every night he could, a sort of ritual he performed to the (false, pagan) gods he worshipped. Zephyr found the habit to be rather calming, and so imitated it whenever he got edgy.

Tomorrow, tomorrow and the rebellion would begin... Zephyr had no idea if the paltry five-hundred renegades and mercenaries would stand a chance of taking Prontera, even if the royalists knew nothing of this revolt. There was something like five-thousand knights and crusaders fiercely loyal to the king within those walls, not counting the bands of adventurers who swarmed the streets like flies. What he DID know that King Tristram's rule could be tolerated no longer. Thousands of brave men and woman had fallen in the foolish civil war between Geffen and Prontera, and even more had perished on his "grand crusade" against Glasthiem, all for naught. If he was allowed to blunder any more, Odin knew how many more would die...

"Yo."

Zephyr glanced lazily in the direction of the voice, expecting to see one of the free going rouges from the revolt. Instead, he was greeted with the sight of a giant in black armor, its massive silhouette blotting out a sizeable portion of the night sky. Illuminated by the moon behind him, it was impossible to distinguish the giant's features, only that it was no ordinary knight. Acting on reflex, Zephyr leapt to his feet and drew his claymore, slashing savagely at the figure's head, missing the helm by a hair's breadth as the giant leaned back. Zephyr's backslash halted in mid-swing as the giant suddenly surged forward, slamming one of its sledgehammer-like fists into the his middle. With a gasp, the green-haired one crumpled. It felt like half his plumbing just got torn loose...

"Not exactly the greeting I had in mind, but I guess this will make things easier anyway." The giant snorted. "Shut up and listen. You've got maybe an hour before you can get up, so I'm going to make this quick. This half-assed plot isn't going to work, so I advise ditching it as quickly as you can. A division of the papal army is sitting between you guys and Prontera, and will be moving to crush your raggedy-ass army tomorrow morning."

Zephyr's eyes widened in surprise. "How-"

"I hope you fuckers didn't really think you'd be able to gather THAT many guys without being noticed. We've been on to you for months; it's just that King Tristam decided to wait for all the troublemakers to get in one place before he crushed them all in one fell swoop."

"Then what the hell is this?" Zephyr coughed, glaring up at the giant. "Why the warning?"

The giant stared down at him in disbelief, blood-red eyes glowing through his visor. "The warning was for you and you alone, dipshit. Don't tell me you don't recognize who I am!"

Baffled, Zephyr took a closer look at the giant, his mind searching frantically for a face that matched the enormous figure. He only knew one man who stood at over six-feet and wore that much tin, but that man didn't posses red eyes. The only person he knew who did have irises that hue was… quite a bit shorter.

The massive two-handed that suddenly buried itself in the dirt an inch from Zephyr's nose was enough to convince it was indeed the Lord Knight he once knew, seven inches taller and perhaps fifty pounds heavier. Only Cross would wield a sword that large.

"Cross... what are you doing here?" The green-haired knight growled, clutching his belly in pain.

"Oh, for the love of- WEREN'T YOU LISTENING?! YOU are GOING to DIE! Pushing up the daisies when spring comes! Six-feet under! Fermenting my beer! Get the hell out of here while you still can!" Cross roared, waving his arms frantically.

"...No."

"Why the hell not?!"

"Because," Zephyr replied calmly, "I'm actually fighting for something I believe in."

Cross sneered. "What the hell are beliefs worth? Their weight in gold, and that's about it. You're not some stupid fanatic, boy, you're a knight, and one who's still bound by his oaths, at that. Forgotten them already?"

"Oaths sworn to a tainted king-"

"Tainted? No. Stupid? Much more likely. But that man could be a half-blind senile schizophrenic and I'd still take him over that hot-headed fuck you're saluting at the moment." Cross growled. "Least the king's cool-headed enough to plot out crap like the ambush that's going to smash you to bits."

Zephyr's own temper flared up at the Lord Knight's words. "What do you know, Cross? You're just a damned mercenary, selling your sword to the highest bidder-"

"Better than selling your soul to the loudest liar." The lord knight shot back. "What the HELL do you know about me? Nothing. And it seems like you never will." Cross tipped his helmet in a quick salute. "It seems I've wasted my time. Farewell, veget- no, Zephyr. May the stars keep us from meeting on the battlefield tomorrow, for I have no intentions of holding back."

The Lord Knight's boot came downward at Zephyr's head like a meteor, and then the knight's world exploded into stars, swiftly followed by pitch dark.

* * *

Cross removed his greaves from the unconscious knight's helmet. He had to leave, soon, or his employers were going to find out about his nightly outings. Briefly, he considered simply kidnapping Zephyr and dragging him out of there and saving his arse, but decided against it. Any moment now, one of the others might come checking up on the green-haired knight, and Cross could not afford to alert the rebels. They needed to be completely unsuspecting tomorrow when the Pronterans sprung their trap, or more men than absolutely necessary were going to die. Besides, this was Zephyr's decision, not his. If the retarded turnip chose death, than so be it. At least he'd be fighting for a cause he thought just, which was more than the Lord Knight could say for himself.

Cursing quietly, Cross looked up into the night sky. That was exactly what the fool's problem was, being too damned just. When Zephyr woke up tomorrow, he probably wouldn't even mention this little meeting with his superiors. He was going to die like every other maggot in the army, pointlessly, worthlessly, like heaps of garbage into a furnace. There was nothing Cross could do, other than accelerate the process and make it a little less painful.

As he hurried away from the hillside, Cross looked up into the night sky, counting the stars one by one. It wasn't a religious following that made him do this, but rather it helped calm him down.

He was going to need it.


	7. Coincidences

**Coincidences **

"You need a girlfriend."

Cross raised an eyebrow at the comment. Had anyone else uttered those words, he would have gutted the fellow like a fish and cut his purse. But he knew the slightly intoxicated fellow to his right too well to kill over something this petty. Especially in a tavern full of witnesses.

"…What?" The Lord Knight questioned.

"I said you need a girlfriend, or at least a mistress," Zephyr slurred.

"…And what the hell makes you say that?"

"Well, it's the only logical explanation as to why you're pissed all the time; you don't get laid enough!" The knight smiled and nodded, as if he had just revealed the secrets of the Universe to his friend.

Cross drank deeply from his mug, hoping to drown his irritation in watered ale that tasted faintly of Peco drool. "What the FUCK are you talking about?"

"You release all of your pent up sexual frustrations through your sword! Every time you go fighting, all you're really doing is waving a giant phallic symbol around, raping people through the face and beating them to death with your manhood! You don't kill them because you hate them, you kill them because you're never getting any! Speaking of which, are you compensating for something-"

The Lord Knight backhanded Zephyr across the face, careful to divert his wrist spikes and avoid committing manslaughter. To his surprise, Zephyr was still standing from the blow, a testament to how tough the fool had become.

"OW! FUCK! YOU COULD HAVE JUST TOLD ME IF YOU WERE GA-"

This time, Cross aimed for the groin. With a high-pitched squeak, the knight rolled off his stool, curled up into a tight ball and clutching his no-no place protectively.

"Lord of- Has it ever occurred to you that some of us simply might not be interested in getting laid?!" The Lord Knight snarled.

"…You're asexual?" A bar patron sitting to Cross's left asked curiously.

A split second later, the man's skullcap was twirling end over end in the air, bits of brain splattering the otherwise clean bar. The Lord Knight quickly wiped his claymore on the stunned bartender's shirt before returning it to his sheath.

An hour later, the Lord Knight was riding out of Morroc, sword stained to the hilt in red.

"…I have GOT to stop getting into bar brawls."

* * *

"You need a girlfriend."

Cross raised an eyebrow. "Have you been talking to Zephyr?"

The Paladin standing beside Cross sighed. "No. How can I? Zephyr is in Morroc, recovering for a nasty bash to the head."

"Don't look at me like that. He's lucky I didn't castrate him and hang his testicles on a pike," The lord knight grumbled.

Azrael sighed. "What did he do?"

"Called me gay."

"…Are you?"

With a shriek, the Lord Knight's claymore erupted from its sheath, cutting deeply into Azrael's shield. Unperturbed, the Paladin lowered his eluminum barrier. "You know, this is exactly what gets you into trouble all the time."

"What, not killing on the first strike?" Cross muttered, trying to pry his claymore free.

"I was thinking more along the lines of your short temper."

"Yeah, well, blow me." With a heave, the Lord Knight wrenched the blade out. "There's a reason why the old man named me 'Cross.' It's my nature."

"And I suppose it's also your nature to be homosexual."

Idly, Cross checked his sword for damage. "I'm not."

"Are you certain?" Azrael scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. All the friends you have are male, you rarely interact with females-"

"Actually, I do."

"Killing them doesn't quite count."

"Well, I don't interact with people much in general then," Cross replied.

"Of course you do, its not like you're a hermit or something-"

"Name everyone I've known for more than a week and lived to tell the tale."

"…Point. But I can't help but notice that there are far more men on that list than women."

"Why, you're absolutely fucking right!" Cross exclaimed in false surprise. "Maybe I should go offing my male friends until things are even!"

"…How did we go from talking about your love life to your murder list?" Azrael asked, more to himself than the psychopath next to him.

"Simple. I don't have the former, and I'm not quite done composing the latter." Satisfied that his sword was undamaged, the Lord Knight sheathed his claymore.

Azrael sighed. "So, would it be safe not assume that you're not interested in women?"

"For the love of all that is holy, I am NOT gay!"

The Paladin shook his head. "I'm not saying that you are. I'm just trying to make sure that my daughter is safe from you."

"…She's eleven years younger than me."

Azrael shrugged. "Who knows? You may really be a pedophi-"

Ten hours later, a small mob of crusaders managed to pry the broken, bruised, and bleeding transcendent classers off of each other. None could say for certain who was the winner.

* * *

"You need a girlfriend."

For a heartbeat, Cross froze.

This nearly proved fatal. His opponent's pole axe struck a glancing blow on Cross's helm, splitting the visor wide open. With a curse, the Lord Knight leapt back, tearing off the headpiece to avoid obstructing his view. Cross continued retreating until he was at what he considered a safe distance from his opponent, then lowered his claymore into a simple guard stance.

"What makes you say that?" Cross growled, eyeing his opponent warily. It was unlikely that his adversary, a female Lord Knight clad in heavy black plate, could mount any sudden attack from peco back. Nevertheless, he had learned to be prepared when facing Lady Eleanor, his former instructor in riding. Though he failed miserably in those lessons, he'd learned much regarding how to deal with mounted people.

"Nothing, just seeing how easily distracted you've become." The mounted knight explained. With a sharp kick, Eleanor spurred her peco forward and lowered her pole axe menacingly, spear point aimed for Cross's heart. As the peco neared, Cross beat the lance thrust aside and moved in to bring his claymore to bear, but was simply beaten back as the mounted lord knight suddenly pulled back her spear and swung it like an axe. In the ensuing exchange of slashes and thrusts, Cross found himself hard-pressed to gain an advantage over his opponent.

"You really need a girlfriend." Eleanor commented again. This time, Cross did not hesitate, but the mounted Lord Knight beat him back all the same. A simple brandish of the spear, and Cross was suddenly airborne, completing two full rotations before landing on all fours around ten feet away.

Warily, Cross lifted the remaining foot or so of claymore he had left in his hand, and held it in front of him in preparation for the next attack. It seemed as if his former instructor in the Chivalry had grown tired of games…

Instead of charging, however, the mounted Lord Knight merely sighed before reining her mount in and started heading off in the other direction. Though surprised, Cross quickly ran up to her, walking by her peco as she headed back toward the city.

"What, not another ploy to catch me off guard?" Cross questioned.

"Simple advice this time." Eleanor replied. "It isn't right for someone not to have anyone to love…"

He couldn't help it. The corner's of Cross's mouth twitched. "This coming from Prontera's 'Iron Centaur?'"

The mounted Lord Knight gracefully spun her lance around and rapped Cross lightly on the skull with the butt of he pole axe. "Consider it motherly advice. You spark my maternal instincts, somehow."

"Motherly advice from a forty-year old bitch who's legendary for her brutality on the battlefield-"

This time, the rap was much sharper. Cross dropped to his knees, clutching his face in pain. He could have sworn the blow knocked his eyeballs out.

With a huff, Eleanor brought her steed to a stop. "How rude. Don't forget who it was that helped you get back on your feet and into the chivalry. The least you could do is repay me by making grandchildren."

"YOU ALREADY HAVE GRANDCHILDREN YOU CRAZY WHOR-"

(Crack)

Lady Eleanor Windsor spurred her steed on, leaving her ungrateful, unconscious son lying in the middle of the road. Maybe some good samartian would drag him to the infirmary, or maybe the crows would be feasting on his corpse in an hour. Both worked for her.

* * *

"You need a girlfriend. :D"

With a crisp, clear crunch, the claymore Cross had been admiring snapped in between his fingers. This was becoming too much to bear…

"CROSSY! THAT WAS MY FIRST ONE!!! (ﾟДﾟ)" Rodger howled. The young Mastersmith was hunched by his forge, repairing a damaged helmet for a certain suicidal Lord Knight.

"Well, it sucked, apparently," The Lord Knight replied, "Now, enlighten me. WHAT THE FUCK PUT THAT IDEA INTO YOUR TINY BRAIN?!"

"Can't you tell? It's mating season:3"

"For lower life forms and pubescent teenagers, yes." Cross growled. "And that is exactly what separates humans from the aforementioned abominations. We can control our sexual urges, or use our hands."

"That's unnatural though :/" Rodger said.

"Nature's stupid. It created cruel, ugly bipedal creatures that crap in the rivers they drink from for reasons concerning 'hygiene,'" Cross growled.

"It's still nature. It's only natural for a person to want to breed. :p"

"Coming from one freak of nature to another, that isn't exactly convincing." The Lord Knight muttered, staring at his brother's ears. Not the ones on the sides of his head either, but rather the strange, wolfish ones placed on top.

"Hey! I'm natural:o" Rodger protested.

"Yes, yes, very natural. Any of your raccoon friends help at the forge lately?"

"…Shut up. :("

Cross sighed as the little Mastersmith/animal thing returned to his work, delicately tapping the helmet into shape with his small hammer. Hours passed before Rodger spoke up again, slowly, cautiously, as if unsure of himself.

"So… why don't you get a girlfriend:/"

"Oh, for the love of- Can you IMAGINE me with someone!?"

"No, not really… :("

"That is reason enough. Now shut up and get back to hammering."

"Hai---"


	8. Grief is Fleeting

**Grief is Fleeting**

"THAT FUCKER SPAWNED?!?" The lord knight sprung up from his seat, knocking over a rather expensive looking vase in the process. Azrael buried his face in his hands at Cross's outburst. He should have known better than to invite the barbarian into his office…

"Yes, Cross. Zephyr sired two children before he left this world-"

"THE FREAK VEGETABLE HAS LEFT HIS BASTARD OFFSPRING ON THIS WORLD!" The lord knight howled, "QUICKLY! WE MUST TEAR THE WEEDS OUT BY THE ROOTS AND ENSURE NONE OF THE BLOODLINE SURVIVE TO CONTAMINATE THE GENE POOL!"

The paladin lifted his head. "…Weren't you sort of grieving for him yesterday?"

"That was before I got my paycheck. Quickly, where do the orphans lie?"

"…He was married, Cross."

"Well, I guess I better kill his wife as well, just in case he got her pregnant before he bought the farm," The lord knight replied, "What's their address?"

Azrael chose to ignore him. "I just thought there might have been something of Zephyr's you would have liked for them to have, since you were one of his friends-"

"Nope."

"…Do you have anything that belonged to him?"

"Yes, but I'm keeping the valuables," Cross replied matter-of-factly.

"Please, at the very least, return Zephyr's swords. Both were family heirlooms."

"Oh, those ancient pieces of crap? They didn't seem to be worth pilfering, so I buried them with his body, remember?"

The paladin buried his face deeper into his hands. This man was…unbelievable.

"But hey, no biggy. We can always go get them back."

…Slowly, Azrael lifted his head. His expression was strangely calm, considering how flabbergasted he felt inside. "…I dearly hope you're not proposing you raid his grave."

"Me? No. We? Yes."

"May I remind you, I _am_ a paladin."

"Good. Paladin's are usually sturdy guys. Mind helping me pull the wagon?"

"…Do I want to know?"

"Well, how else am I going to bring all the loot back?!?"

"…I am NOT doing this."

* * *

"I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm doing this…" Azrael chanted, tightening the strap on his pack nervously. He…he was a paladin. Paladins were supposed to symbolize all that was good and right. This… this monstrous act…went against everything he believed in…

"Oh shut up. You had your chance to back out," the lord knight grumbled, burying his shovel into the earth.

"What?!? And let you loot ALL the graves?!" Azrael yelled. "The only reason I'm here is to make sure you don't start digging up EACH and EVERY one of these mounds, searching for valuables."

Cross ceased his shoveling. Twirling the tool around, he gave his best friend an offended look. "Do I look like a man who disturbs the rest of others for a few measly coins?"

"WHO'S GRAVE ARE YOU DIGGING UP RIGHT NOW?!?"

The lord knight raised an eyebrow. "Zephyr's, I presume. Why?"

"WE BURIED HIM WITH A CLAYMORE AS A MARKER, NOT A LANCE!"

Cross blinked. "We did?"

"YES!"

"Well, shit, I'm already halfway there though. Think we could jus-"

"NO."

* * *

"Aw, SHIT! This one's still fresh!"

"…Please, cover her back up, Cross."

"Whooo WEE! God, SMELL that STENCH, man. Oh gross, I guess they really do rot slower if you bury them."

"Cross, cover her."

"Ho, damn, wait a second. I think some guy offered me a couple thousand to find out if this one was alive. Let's see, a looker…well, used to be a looker… great legs… well, no legs now-"

"Cross, please, cover her. NOW."

"Beautiful singing voice… Not like we can tell, unless we yank out her vocal cords and analyze it with some magic or something. Nice hands… Well, the fingernails and shit are coming off, but I guess they used to be ni-"

"COVER HER THIS FUCKING INSTANT YOU SICK BASTARD!!!"

"I don't remember you being this queasy back in the old da-"

"You wanna join her?"

"All right, all right, jeez."

* * *

"CROSS!"

"What? This one was marked with a claymore, wasn't it?"

"That. Is. NOT. Zephyr."

"Well, how was I supposed to know?"

"You couldn't have. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU CAN LOOT IT!!!"

"Aw, c'mon. This guy's loaded. He sure as hell won't be needing this anym-"

"PUT THAT BACK. NOW"

"Cross, dig a little slower."

"Hey, you wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, didn't you?"

"Yes, but if you dig too quickly, you might hit something."

"Wasn't that kinda the whole point?"

"No, I mean you might stab the corp-"

CRUNCH

"…"

"…"

"…It's okay, it's a brunette. Vege-boy was green."

"…I'm going to be damned to hell for this."

"So… I'm home free?"

"There's going to be a LOT more than hell waiting for you when you get there."

* * *

"I think I found him!"

"Oh, thank Odin. Grab his swords and let's go."

"Sure thing."

"…Cross, that's his tombstone."

"Well, yeah. What, you think I marked him with one of mine?"

"…Your stinginess aside, you mean to tell me that his sword was on the surface, and that this entire digging of the dead thing was pointless?"

"Good lord, no, there are two, remember?"

"…So, would it be safe to assume the other is somewhere on Zephyr's corpse?"

"Probably. Unless I jacked the other, sold it at the weapons shop, and forgot about it."

"…Search the body."

"Right, right. Hey, can I keep his skull?"

"…What the HELL do you want THAT for?!"

"I though I'd put it in a flower pot and raise the grass on top of it. You know, a kind of reminder."

"Touching. No. Now get the sword."

"Right, right."

"…Cross, mark the grave."

"Huh?"

"You plan to leave his grave unmarked?!?"

"Well, yeah. I don't have another sword to spare…"

"YOU HAVE FIVE CLAYMORES ON YOUR BACK!"

"Yes, but they're real steel. Much too rich for his blood."

"DON'T MAKE ME SMASH YOUR HEAD IN."

"…Bitch."

* * *

The next morning, Azrael and Cross marched through Geffen, the former looking haggard and shameful, the latter with head held high and a smile on his face. People stopped to stare at the two dirt-stained figures, at the shovel the lord knight carried, and at the large brown sack slung over his shoulder. Most put two and two together. Then turned away, pale faced.

It was nearly noon when they reached their destination. A peaceful little Abbey to the northeast, populated with monks and "other queer clergy folk," as Cross put it. Azrael quickly held out a hand in front of the lord knight, signaling him to halt.

"What is it, Azzy?"

"That's Zephyr's wife over there."

"What, the one with the green munchkins?" The lord knight's eyes suddenly widened. "…Shit. There are two?"

"They're twins."

"Really? That one over there looks like a girl though…"

Azrael palmed his forehead. "They're not identical. And that one's the boy."

"Oh."

The two stood for a while in silence, staring at the scene before them. A younger monk, around Cross's own age, was playing with two leaf-green midgets (green being the color of their hair, not the tone of their skin). Though the children were cheerful and lively, their mother seemed worn, tired. Judging from her forced smile, Cross presumed he had made her life much, much more difficult than it should have been.

Guilt was like a tsunami, crushing one's heart and drowning men in grief. The lord knight brushed it off like water as he stepped forward, untying the bag he had been carrying.

As he approached, the monk froze. Before she could react, Cross sprung forward and rammed his fist full into her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her instantly. When she sort of curled up around his fist, however, the lord knight began having doubts about if that was ALL he had done.

He didn't THINK he'd torn her plumbing loose…

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!?" Azrael shrieked.

"…She was going to attack me! I fucking swear!"

"YOU STUPID SONOVA-"

"FUCK! NOT IN FRONT OF THE KIDS, YOU RETARDED BITCH!" Cross yelled, waving his hand at the pair of stunned novices. "YOU WANT THE LITTLE CUNTS TO GROW UP KNOWING SHIT LIKE THAT?!"

"…" The paladin covered his face and cried.

Grinning wolfishly, the lord knight turned back to the kids. Pulling out the weapons he had illegally acquired, Cross handed one to each. "Heya kids, these thingies used to belong to your daddy, but then he died, so they're yours now."

"…Daddy's DEAD!?" The twins cried out in unison.

Cross blinked. "Oh, your mom didn't tell you? Well, don't worry, I THINK he's in a better place now. It can't get much worse than being under the apprenticeship of a man who brutally bisects you with eight-feet of steel, anyway. Don't worry. Though the thing was kinda blunt, it was very, very quick. He didn't suffer. Much. I think."

The twins' eyes widened, then began to tear up. Their lower lips' began to wobble, and their lungs expanded. Sensing danger, the lord knight grabbed their heads and banged them together like coconuts, knocking them unconscious.

"…Right, well…let's go, Azzy!"

"…Monster."


	9. Better dead?

The arrowhead had pierced clean through the side of his heavy full plate, past the felt fabric underneath, and slid through the space in between his ribs, burrowing straight into his lung before coming to a halt. Wind whistled from the wound as the knight drew breath, and blood spurted as he exhaled. Within moments, he would most likely die, either from suffocation caused by the inability to hold breath in his body, inhalation of blood until he quite literally drowned, or simple bleeding, the loss of his life through a leak in his body.

Cross couldn't have cared less.

_"This cannot be where I was meant to fall."_

With strength born from rage, the lord knight shoved a three-hundred pound high orc he had locked weapons with off balance. As the blue-skinned demi-human stumbled, Cross wrenched his sword free from the axe-haft of the demi-human's weapon and slit the creature's thick throat open from ear to ear. Even as gore sprayed from the thing's gaping neck wound, it teetered, swinging its axe wildly as it toppled backwards. Cross quickly leaned back to avoid the blow, but not quite quickly enough. The axe glanced off his chest and left a massive gash, as if the black iron had been nothing more than a pumpkin shell. It was that brute strength that made orcs a threat to even the most skilled adventurers, their ability to cleave through armor with near magical ease.

That, and their sheer numbers.

_"Not here, not yet, not now. "_

His backward momentum carried him into another high orc, a fellow who showed greater amount of foresight than one might expect from a pig-headed brute and was already swinging his axe to meet the lord knight's skull. Sparks erupted from his helms as the axe split through the metal and opened his scalp, revealing the white of his skull. Aside from a slight shudder from his body, Cross showed no outward sign of having been affected by the blow. The edge of his claymore whistled as it tore through the air, splitting open the orc's belly until it struck the spine. Hot entrails spilled from the creatures belly, and with it the nauseating stench of partly digested food and feces.

_"Not to these things, not by their blades."_

The blade came out with surprising ease, perhaps to the slipperiness of orc gut. The lord knight had a second to right himself before another arrow struck him in the shoulder, striking between the shoulder and chest plate to lodge itself firmly in the joins. At that moment, all sensations in his left arm suddenly vanished, as if it had been cut off from his torso. The limb went limp, and with it, his grip on the claymore. The four-feet of steel that he had held now felt like a six-foot spear in his right hand, and he used it accordingly. Tossing it up into the air, the lord knight caught it by the hilt like a javelin. He sent it flying off across the field with such speed that it actually vanished for a moment, before reappearing in the chest of an orc archer nearly two-hundred yards away.

But even as the creature fell, another soon reappeared to take its place.

_"Not by this stupidity, not in this obscurity."_

The sound of fighting had drawn even more of the demihumans from across the field, and not in ones or twos either. There was a pack of them, the great blue-skinned brutes, howling their heathen battle cry and brandishing their heavy axes. Crossbent down to pick up the axe of one of the creature's he'd slain, caught another arrow through the neck, stumbled, and fell. Like some vile undead creature, he rose once more, gripping the axe with one hand, near the head of the weapon. Blood flooded his mouth through his throat. Even in his berserk rage, he could not ignore the choking sensation.

_"I refuse."_

Two of the brutes ran ahead of the pack, eager to make their kill of the day before their brothers. The first orc came at him like a butcher, swinging down at him as if he were a lifeless hunk of meat. It realized it's mistake when Cross shot under the descending axe and drove a cleaver of his own into the orc's fat gut, not as much cutting through the thick hide with the lord knight's own force as letting the orc split himself on it. The hilt of the axe actually broke off when the demi-human collapsed, providing Cross with a hand's length of wood that ended with a sharpened splintery point. He drove it into the second orc's eye even as the second orc smashed him in the chest with the hammer end of his axe, cracking the lord knight's sternum. Blood surged up his throat through his mouth and out of his body, and with it, his anger, the driving force of his life.

_"I can't… I can't-"_

The arrow struck him in side, below the one that had buried itself in his lungs, joining seven others of its kind in the lord knight's gut. Slowly, stubbornly, the lord knight slid to his knees, unable to go on any longer.

_"I can't lose…"_

But he could, and he had.

He could do nothing as the pack reached him, their axes blazing orange in the afternoon sun. The lead high orc raised his axe, cried out in triumph-

And halted, though not by choice. Physics usually had the decisive vote in such matters, and a longbow shaft had an amazing amount of force for something so small. With a certain technique perfected by Payon's bowmen, an arrow could knock a man backwards a few yards, giving the archer more time to prepare a second shaft, or even a third. Though the high orc was far more heavyset than most men, it still ground to a halt, staring in disbelief at the little feathered shaft that had sprout out of his chest. The second shaft sent him reeling into his fellows, spoiling their charge. A third found it's way into the astonished creature's gaping mouth, exploding out the back in a spray of brains and teeth.

"_…what?"_

More arrows whistled past the lord knight, practically a shower of them, went riddling the high orcs like pincushions. One particularly big- brute, nearly a foot taller than it's fellows, howled, raised it's wooden buckler to it's face, and charged into the hail of arrows, bent on killing the lord knight at the cost of it's own life, if need be. The arrow that killed it passed through its muscle-knotted chest and through its massive heart. The great brute came crashing down like a tree, dead before it hit the ground. Cross could almost see the surprise in the orc's dead eyes, the stunned disbelief that it had been killed by something as small and commonplace as an iron-tipped shaft.

A sentiment soon shared by the rest of his comrades. Within seconds, Cross was the only one left upright in the field.

_"…what the hell-"_

Without warning, something tugged sharply on the lord knight's cape, pulling him bodily onto the ground. His head struck the earth first, doing horrors to head injuries. Cross's world began to fade into a red mist, his mind slowly slipping into a sleep he was almost certain he would not wake up from.

But not before he caught a glimpse of his rescuer.

_"An angel, a saint, a Valkyrie from the Valhalla, saving my soul from eternity in Hel…"_

_"…by the stars, I hate her already."_

* * *

When he came to, the adrenaline had left his system. Agony previously ignorable due to the various hormones pumping through his bloodstream came flaring up from every inch of his body, a sensation comparable to being hamstringed, garroted, denailed, scalped, and castrated, all at once. Cross tried to scream. To his dismay, all that came out was a faint whistling sound, originating from his throat. The lord knight managed to bring a hand to his neck, at the mouth of the hole an orcish arrow had drilled into his windpipe. 

"Well, I'll be damned… you may live after all."

It took a conscious effort to open his eyes, but Cross insisted. Kneeling over him was the Goddess of his nightmares, the coming together of all the traits he despised the most. He averted his eyes from her, as if ignoring her might somehow make her go away.

"Hold still for a moment. If I don't sew up your chest, you'll be knocking on the gates of Hel before nightfall."

_"A blonde haired huntress with a heart of gold."_

They were in a forest now, probably east of the Orc village, though only the gods knew how this woman had dragged his armored bulk the full day's journey without winding up as some green-skin's lunch. Even without a burden like him, it would have taken a remarkably talented woodsman to survive the journey through the demi-human encampment alone.

"Ullr's bow, you have got to be the stupidest bastard I've ever met!" The huntress hissed. "A months leave from the war in Glastheim, and the first thing you do is run off to start another with the green-skins! Are you mad, or did your mother beat you around the head too much?"

_"A tongue of fire, a voice ice cold."_

Cross pointedly ignored her, focusing more on how she was stitching his lung wound together with all the speed and precision of trained surgeon. Though he cold hardly have hurt more, watching the woman run a needle and thread through flaps of his flesh over and over again was a bit disturbing, and probably downright nauseating for others. The lord knight wondered how the hell she could stand the task.

"Oh Odin, you're a goddamned mess. How is it that you're still breathing?!? I've seen bodies line the charnel houses wall to wall, and you look worse than the entire pack of them put together! Dear lord, is that a tooth in your neck?" The huntress mused, moving on to his throat.

_"Her mouth does flop, it just won't stop,_

_How could I loathe her more?"_

_"…my god, the fuckers were right. There IS a third-rate bard screaming inside my head…"_

"There" The huntress continued. "Your throat's patched up. Can you breath?"

"Barely." Cross wheezed.

"…I was expecting a nod of some sort. Maybe some finger tapping-"

"I'm borderline insane, not downright retarded." The lord knight gasped out. "More than could be said for you, I'm sure."

The huntress gaped for a moment, probably surprised at Cross's liveliness. "Strange words to say to your rescuer."

"I never asked for your help."

"I saved your life."

"It'll be spent elsewhere."

The woman slapped him. Hard. Cross was surprised to find that it actually hurt. The woman must have removed his helm when he was out of it.

"Oh god no…"

Cross turned away from the huntress, his face burning red in shame. His helmet was used for concealment every bit as much as protection, a mask for him to hide behind. Without it, he was… he was a…

"Kid. I don't care what the hell you went through in your life, or how hard it was. If you plan to just waste it, I'll kill you myself."

"…this ."

Cross's face turned a shade darker as he spun to face her. "I'm eighteen."

"You're an idiot, and I don't know how you managed to steal your grandfather's armor, but remember this, you are NOT a lord knight." She paused. "Hell, I doubt if you're even a real knight. A swordsman, perhaps? Or maybe a novice..."

"I'm going to kill her. As soon as I can stand up, I'm going to slit her stupid throat."

"Well, if you can still throw a tantrum, I guess you'll be able to make it on your own." The huntress put away the thread and needle, stood up, and walked off. Just like that.

The lord knight raged silently for a while, until a vein burst in his head and sent him blissfully into a coma. Before he drifted off, however, he realized that he hadn't caught her name…

* * *

The day would forever be burned into the lord knight's mind, the day where he was defeated, humiliated, and, worst of all, rescued. The blow to his pride, he solemnly swore, would be repaid in blood. 


End file.
